


White jumper

by Ange_desu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_desu/pseuds/Ange_desu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a white over-sized jumper.<br/>That jumper somehow ends up being Sherlock's possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea came from my talk with @HolmesDeduct & @MyLittleSnail on twitter earlier today. I probably haven't done a good job with it, but it's so sweet and cute to imagine that I couldn't resist but try writing something ~

It was all together quite normal evening. Wind hummed behind the windows, lamps lighted up, few of them blinking or not working. Cars passing through the streets. Nothing extraordinary. Then there was this apartment, a 221B flat on Baker Street.

John Watson descended from his room upstairs dressed in jeans and a white jumper, a one that was too big for him but he still used it at home. He glanced over at the detective sitting on the chair with borrowed laptop. Well, confiscated. He never asked for permission. John frowned and moved behind his back, to look at what he was doing.

Sherlock Holmes was hacking on his blog. Or more likely, messing around. Hacking wasn’t much difficulty for him, no matter how many times did John change the password. The detective scoffed, pretending he didn’t notice John behind him.

“What the /hell/ are you doing?!” he asked bluntly, reaching over Sherlock to take the laptop from him.

“Oh, John.” There was an acted out expression of suddenly realizing his presence. The smirk did not disappear from his face as he leaned forward in the chair, taking laptop with him and therefore away from within John’s reach. “You had a few mistakes on your blog. I’m fixing it now.”

“No one asked you to,” John frowned and huffed, going over chair to retrieve the laptop. “What mistakes, anyway?”

“Just little ones,” Sherlock had this expression that was saying how proud he is of his own deed, but he still kept laptop from John’s reach. “Not explaining properly. Deductions, John, they’re important. You’re missing all the points if you simply skip them over.”

“Sherlock, that’s my blog!” John growled. “Not a website to stroke your ego. Also, my laptop, hand it over!”

The detective furrowed his eyebrows. “But John!”

“No!” John shook his head, finally taking the laptop from his flat-mate, shutting it closed without saving the changes on the blog. He put it on the table, bit more violently than he’d like to. His own gesture tickled his already rising temper.

There was a growl, a quiet and quite muffled sound, yet perceived by both men. Two gazes focused on John’s belly. Sherlock opened mouth as if to say something, probably a deduction about the sound indicating John’s hunger, but the short man in jumper stopped him. “I know,” he groaned, sighing deeply and proceeding into the kitchen.

It was the reason for him going downstairs in the first place. The food.

But it was a 221B flat on Baker Street. Of course it wasn’t so simple to get some. He opened the fridge, only to find couple of arms leaned in, with nothing much edible around. Immediately he shut the fridge door and leaned on it with his forehead.

“What was I thinking...” he muttered to himself.

“Something wrong?” called Sherlock from living room, his voice full of innocence and bare ignorance of what was going on.

John turned around and walked back to him, his steps quick, angry. “Yes! You!” He pointed finger at him. He was very well aware of the fact Sherlock knows what exactly did John find in the fridge and what he did not find. He frowned heavily, glancing at him.

Yet the only response was only raised eyebrow in question, and a relaxed pose.

And then a hell broke loose, as John stood there shouting abuse, scolding, complaining, yelling, swearing... and saying plenty of things he’d have wished he didn’t say.

And through that time, Sherlock had a few expression – from surprise to awe to realization to vulnerability, ending up in a very hurt look of his eyes as he stood up and without a single word passed by John, swiftly crossing through the room and going out.

For a long time, John just stood there, looking at now empty chair, breathing heavily and calming himself down. It was painful, for as he did it, a lot of thoughts emerged and his head kept on echoing his own words and reminding him of Sherlock’s hurt face.

Weakly, he flopped onto the chair, hands rubbing his face as he sighed loudly. “God...”

A silence passed by, weighing heavy on him, and he hated himself for a moment.

Then he looked to the door, as if with hope, and noticed Sherlock’s coat being hang up.

Shiver ran down his spine.

The detective must’ve been very distressed if he did not take his coat, moreover in these temperatures.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The running steps echoed on an empty street as a single man made haste across the road. His goal was unknown, or rather quite known, but the location of it was very cloudy. His breath was fast and shallow, and tired from all the running, but it wasn’t stopping him.

His eyes looked over the place, trying to pick up another course. Where could he go? He already checked the Bart’s and phoned Lestrade, but to no avail. Where else could that idiot go, coatless and in this cold?

John had hoped he chose some warm, cozy place inside. Even if it meant bar, or some very dangerous place.

But John was wrong.

 

It took him almost another long hour to find the man. The night was deep by the time, and the park where he was curled up on the bench quite scary, as the lights were far apart. Doctor ran to him, immediately knowing the figure, and then he just huffed and tried to catch his breath while Sherlock just looked at him, silently and without an emotion showing on his face.

The detective was sitting up, his feet up on the bench, knees pulled to his chin. He was hugging his legs, shivering lightly whenever the wind decided to blow. Although his face was expressionless, there was a great deal of desperate try to defend himself in the way he just /was/ there.

John felt a pain throbbing in his chest as he finally straightened up and cleared his throat.

The blue eyes were following his every movement, as he nervously tugged at his jumper. “Look, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I didn’t... mean it like that.”

For a long moment, the only response was silence, but then Sherlock spoke, his voice a bit rusty and as if threatening to break before finishing sentence: “You hate me.”

“No!” John frowned, shaking head abruptly. Then sighed. “There are few pet peeves going on with your habits, but I don’t...” his voice got caught in his throat and he paused a bit; “I don’t hate you, Sherlock.”

“You pretty clearly said you do,” protested detective.

“I was /angry/ for God’s sake,” something sorrowful sneaked into his tone, a voice of a man of guilt. “Of course I don’t hate you.”

Sherlock just looked at him. It was a rare occasion that he had no answer, no reply to give. John noticed the redness of his eyes, and still ongoing shivering. He reached out a hand.

“Come,” said, his voice soft, caring.

And Sherlock did listen, reaching forward, his cold fingers lightly touching John’s, letting the other man deepen the contact and pull him up. His curls jumped in front of his face, covering it as he kept his head bowed slightly. His companion looked from side to side, finding that there is really no place to warm up in the middle of the park, before pulling an oversized white jumper over his head.

“Here,” he handed it over. Sherlock blinked, as if unsure of what to make of that gesture. “Put it on!” It was an order of a doctor. “It should fit you, it’s big.”

John didn’t look at Sherlock while the detective struggled to get into the jumper. It took an effort for a tall man not to comment how stupid he’ll look in that and how it’s absurd and unnecessary. He didn’t want to ruin the opportunity to get into something warm. And the jumper really was warm, since John had it on all this time.

He sighed gladly, hands pulling at the texture. It was strangely comfortable, far different than he had expected. Soft. Protective. He looked at John, searching to meet his gaze, suddenly feeling a lot safer. There was a big deal of sentiment awakened by something so simple, and he wasn’t fully aware of it as he reached with his hand to touch John’s again.

And the short man twitched, surprised in the first moment, but very quickly relaxed as he realized the things are not bad anymore, that the argue is over. A smile crossed his lips and he let Sherlock hold his hand, noticing how it went gradually warmer.

“Let’s go home,” he murmured, looking up at the other man.

Sherlock nodded, pulling at the sleeve of the jumper. His face was slight pink, but he would never confess it wasn't the fault of cold weather. A strange tickling feeling sank into him, and he let it be there, for it had a sense of happiness, as he walked by John’s side through the park to return home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //...... Well. There might or might not be another chapter. I'll see.  
> There were some prompting ideas though (including collar-wearing and butt-grabbing)...
> 
> ... I loved the conversation that led to this fic ~ <3


End file.
